


Swansong

by zombified_queer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:15:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24497074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombified_queer/pseuds/zombified_queer
Summary: After Hannibal and Will fall into the sea, they emerge so defiantly alive. But when they emerge, Will leaves his voice behind in the sea.  While they settle into life as a pair, FBI trainee Clarice Starling has ambitions to catch herself a pair of monsters in human skin. She goes above and beyond in her stalking the Ripper and his companion, placing herself so close to danger she can feel it breathing down her neck.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 113
Collections: 2020 Eat The Rude Big Bang, hannigram





	Swansong

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank [Tzu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tzu/pseuds/Tzu) who beta'd this fic.
> 
> I'd also like to thank kishafisha for doing the incredible artwork for this fic!

For the briefest moment, before they hit the surface of the sea, Will thinks he sees feathers. Black feathers following their descent, landing on the white-tipped waves before sinking to the bottom of the sea.

The icy impact knocks the air from his lungs. He knows only to swim. Will doesn't know which way is up and the waves that toss him against the rocky coast disorient him further. 

When he leans his head back and tries to find the moon, something dark and familiar spreads its feathery wings and regards him coldly. Will knows this thing. 

And then Hannibal pulls Will out of the water with hands strong and sure. Surgeon's hands. He does it just before Will can name the dark bird watching him drown. 

Whatever inky things Will's swallowed in the sea come up in a tide of coughing. Salt floods his tongue and splatters on the sand. His face stings, salt and cold making the pain in his cheek more acute. Water and blood leak from the laceration on his cheek.

"We survived," Hannibal murmurs. 

Will nods like he’s broken his neck on one of the boulders in the water. They are alive. Acutely. Sore, battered, hypothermic, but alive. He wishes something—slow exsanguination or the adrenaline bleeding out of him—would dull all these sharp pains.

But he gets to his feet and follows Hannibal into the night.

* * *

Will Graham wakes in a nest of blankets, handmade quilts. Whatever fever he had from the night before is broken. His cheek aches and when he reaches up to investigate, his fingers are met with gauze. The light of mid-morning washes over him.

He sits up. Will takes account of every muscle in his body, the way his joints move. His shoulder aches too much to move it. 

He opens his mouth to speak and immediately regrets it. Will’s flesh still remembers the plunge of the knife from last night. His cheek stings when he opens his jaw too wide, sutures straining to keep the skin together. Reaching up to touch his face, Will traces the gauze again. 

He’s thirsty.

So he tries to speak again, mindful of the pain in his cheek.

Nothing comes out. Not a single syllable despite how Will tries.

"You're awake."

Will turns his head to stare at the speaker. Hannibal Lecter. Of course it’s Hannibal.

"How are you feeling?"

Will takes in all of Hannibal. The casual sweater and slacks. The worn look on his face.

He’s used to Hannibal’s cold, impersonal mask. But that seems to have cracked, just enough to let Will see behind it. He doubts Hannibal can ever repair that front and the icy distance, not the way they used to be. And Will finds he doesn’t mind it.

"Will?"

Again, Will tries to speak. 

Again, no sound comes out.

Hannibal settles on the edge of the bed. His hands, as he cups Will's face to examine him, are cold. Like steel. Will inhales. Hannibal smells of blood and antiseptic. Fatigue. Rich cologne with a note of musk. 

"You can't speak?"

Will takes Hannibal's hands in his own. At once, it is an apology and a confirmation.

"I think, for the time being," Hannibal says after a long pause, "we should have you learn sign language."

Will shakes his head adamantly. His voice will return. It has to.

* * *

What happens after the fall is muddled, only able to be pieced together after the fact. There are police reports whose contents hold similarities to the Chesapeake Ripper. And yet these are from Belize, so distant from the Chesapeake Ripper’s usual stalking grounds. 

The Federal Bureau of Investigation corroborates bank statements, like a horror story told through transactions. A substantial withdrawal. The closing of an account. At the airport, two men buy plane tickets to South America. Cash. One-way. 

And then there are the psychological evaluations. Not just the Ripper, but his ex-FBI partner, too. Killer and empath. Killer and doctor. 

The word "intelligent psychopath" crops up enough times a tally starts on how many times per page the phrase appears.

Clarice Starling, with Jack Crawford’s blessing, looks these over with fascination. Being trusted to knit together the threads of the Ripper and his new partner thrills her.

She draws her highlighter across photocopies, jots down notes, and tries to anticipate what the Ripper and his partner might do next. 

Some nights, she imagines catching them herself, gun trained on the Chesapeake Ripper. 

While she pours over these pages like preparation for a test, she savours the feeling of usefulness. It's not just a gold star on her homework or a pat on the shoulder for her accuracy and precision on the shooting range. This is real. She might actually be more than “that poor girl” or “that sheriff’s daughter” around the FBI academy.

* * *

Hannibal worries about three things.

The first is the state of his home. Whether it is ready for company. Lavish company. The sort who go to operas and call these meticulously planned dinner parties a soiree. He stocks the pantry with only the finest of cuts, the choicest and most vogue flesh. Even if it’s only for Will, Hannibal never lapses in preparation.

The second thing Hannibal concerns himself with is law enforcement. He reads the papers often, paying close attention to the crime section. Will sometimes writes his notes in the margins of the crime columns, advising Hannibal when to lay low and when to hunt. 

The third thing Hannibal focuses his energy on is Will Graham. He hopes the heat does Will some good. And Will is cared for, provided for. Each meal Hannibal cooks is spoken in the language he shares with his partner. 

"Will?"

He looks up from the newspaper he's been scouring. It's strange not having his rough voice, his gentle barbs of cynicism. Hannibal misses it, even the most hurtful things to leave Will's mouth would be a welcome change.

Hannibal reminds himself, chopping vegetables, that this will pass. Will needs time. If this is a defense mechanism, he'll need rest. If this is physical, then the best thing Hannibal can do is support Will.

"I was thinking we should have a dinner party."

Will raises a brow. Unprompted, Will gets up to set the patio table for two. And then Will stands stock-still.

Following his stare, Hannibal catches sight of brilliant plumage in the leaves. A tropical bird, head buried under a wing. 

"Will?"

Thunder rumbles, far off from their nest. It shouldn’t be more than a light storm. Monsoon season is over for the summer.

Will steps off the patio, closer to the treeline. Without a word, he reaches up. The bird—a brilliantly scarlet macaw, Hannibal sees—gives only a few flaps of its wings before finding a comfortable way to perch on Will's offered hand. 

Before Hannibal can say anything, the bird laughs. It's a human laugh, a cynical chuckling. 

The bird turns its head. Its eyes are cold as it regards Hannibal Lecter.

"Will."

Another roar of thunder. The rain falls slowly at first but the first drop that touches the macaw's feathers has the bird take flight. In Will's still-outstretched hand is a single blue plume.

* * *

Will dreams often these nights. The moment he slips beneath the dark waters of sleep, he's plagued by nightmares. Or maybe they're just ordinary dreams. He's never been good at telling the difference.

Tonight, it's the same one he's had for the better part of a year.

The same stream he visits in times of stress. The one he cleans his bloody hands in to keep himself from adopting anyone else into his mind.

And along the bank are black swans, their eyes blindingly bright. They always stare, watching Will in his fishing waders like a silent jury. 

The more Will struggles to shore in an attempt to join them, the more the waves push him over, finding the precise spot of weakness in his knees to send him under the surface. 

It's never deep, this stream. No deeper than Will's hip. But each time he slips under the surface, his back meets the rocky bottom.

He never gets any closer to shore.

But this time, something changes in the dream.

Will struggles to get upstream instead of to shore. The same logic as swimming parallel to shore in a riptide.

From somewhere deep in the woods, a shot rings out. Will knows the sound of a handgun being fired.

The swans regard him coldly before taking flight in a swarm of darkness. 

Another gunshot. Closer this time.

Will wakes with a start. The scar on his shoulder aches as if a bullet’s tearing through him.

"It was only a dream," Hannibal assures him, taking Will’s hand. "Are you alright? Would you like something to drink?"

Will stares around for a moment. Slowly, it comes back to him. First class flight to Europe. Hannibal has friends in Austria, acquaintances in Switzerland, allies in Italy.

"Will?"

Will shakes his head furiously, wanting for nothing.

* * *

"I might be a trainee," Clarice Starling reminds Jack Crawford for the final time, "but I can handle this part of the investigation."

Crawford pulls Clarice's small suitcase out of the trunk of the car. "You've heard about Miriam Lass."

"Only a hundred times. Same as every other trainee," Clarice answers, taking her suitcase. "I'll be okay. It's just paper trails. Nothing dangerous."

"I'm putting a lot of trust in you, Starling."

"I appreciate it, sir."

Crawford studies her for a moment. Clarice feels small, immature. Like she’s done something to warrant a lecture. Maybe it was her tone.

Maybe he can see the determination she’s tried to hard to swallow down, her discontent with practicing how to clear a room or load a gun.

"Don't miss your flight."

"I won't, sir."

Once in the air, she nods off, dreaming about a river in the woods. A gunshot in her dream startles her. Somewhere, along the riverbank, a black swan squawks indignantly and graceless, dark feathers sinking onto the shore as the bird takes flight.

The swan flies close, wings almost touching her head as they beat furiously. In her dream, Clarice reaches for her holster.

The second shot sounds from somewhere in the forest before she can draw her weapon. It startles her awake.

She takes a second to scan her surroundings. Nothing’s wrong. The plane will land in a few minutes. No one’s fired a gun.

Clarice hopes no one has to.

When the plane lands, Clarice takes a cab straight to her hotel. And then she sleeps.

* * *

Will lays out the recipe cards. There's a focus to it that Hannibal likes to watch as Will pulls recipes from the rack and arranges them into courses. Hannibal offers no comments or critiques and Will doesn't ask for help.

Occasionally, Will closes his eyes and licks his lips, as if tasting the dish, before making his judgement.

It fascinates Hannibal, this method Will's developed. A new design.

"Is this what you've decided on for dinner?" Hannibal asks, amused.

Will nods. He takes a step back.

The courses are arranged with great care. Will's taste is very American, but charming enough in its own way.

"Would you like to help me do the hunting?" Hannibal asks, a hand resting on the small of Will's back. "I might need extra hands to help me prepare."

Will nods. He fixes Hannibal with a stare. In those deep blue eyes is commitment, complete and honest.

Hannibal presses his lips to Will's unscarred cheek.

* * *

Belize is warm, tropical. The ideal vacation locale. But this isn't an edenic getaway. Clarice is out of bed at six, showered, and dressed for the day. 

While she sips her coffee, one of the local officers joins her.

"American," he notes, nodding at her badge. 

"FBI," Clarice clarifies. 

She pulls the photos of Will and Hannibal out, both taken at the BSHCI. "You haven't seen either of these men, have you?"

The officer stares for a moment at both photos. He nods. "The European and his mute friend."

"They lived here?"

"Only for a year or so."

Clarice swallows down her pride. "You wouldn't happen to know where they—"

The officer points. Looming over the city is a still-lush housing tract settled more than halfway up the hill. One of the houses among them is ultra-modern. Walls of glass and brilliantly white walls.

"Thank you," she says. "This really does help with my investigation.”

She stares at the small palace. It seems so strange the Chesapeake Ripper, with all his blood-soaked secrets, would want so many windows. 

But perhaps they don’t kill where they sleep.

* * *

Will is methodical. Hannibal relishes this about him. The “Becoming” of Will Graham has created a thing of beauty in the way Will covers their tracks.

When he looks up, Hannibal admires Will's face, splattered with blood. 

Without a word, Will hands over the lungs. It’s foolish to think their routine of stocking the pantry would break Will’s silence, but Hannibal hopes. When Will doesn’t say a word, Hannibal places the meat into a cooler they keep in the backseat of their car. 

Will selects only the finest cuts for Hannibal’s table.

Hannibal, taking the handkerchief from his pocket, wipes the blood off Will's face. 

"I don't think you realize you are a creature of grace."

Will scoffs wordlessly. He pushes Hannibal's hands away. Kneeling down, Will considers the body they still have to deal with.

"You have your own design?"

Will nods. Hannibal watches Will's work. This is a design that is new, unique to Hannibal.

Will breaks the bones just so, tying the body into frightening contortions that would've killed their victim, had they not been carved open for meat. 

It's a love letter, Hannibal realizes. The same love language as the meals he prepares so diligently for Will's teeth.

* * *

"So this is your den," Clarice says to the empty house. 

Her footsteps are too loud on the wood floors. The afternoon shadows are long. Around any corner could be the Chesapeake Ripper or his accomplice.

Corners. She’s never been good with those. She reaches for her holster every time, the cool metal reassuring her. But when she enters a new room, she thinks her reflexes could’ve been a fraction of a second too late.

She steps into the kitchen. Everything is stainless steel under a small layer of dust. And this makes her pause.

The Chesapeake Ripper she knows from all her research and all her case notes would never leave a place to gather dust. 

But perhaps it's not a loose end. 

Clarice takes one last walk around the house. She studies its shadows with a new sense of purpose. She searches for something she's overlooked. Anything.

It's not here.

She steps outside, into the afternoon light. For a second, the sun blinds her.

Whatever she's been searching for isn't here.

Over supper, Clarice studies the files on the Chesapeake Ripper. She reads them backwards and forwards, cover to cover and then again. Searching for that one little thing she's missed.

She stares down at a picture of Will Graham's face. He's so unassuming, even in photographs. But Clarice has seen the autopsies. Crawford's let her into the secrets of Randall Tier's remains.

"I'm missing something," she tells Will's photograph.

A final leafing through the case notes. Clarice rubs her eyes, feeling a migraine coming on. She begins taking the papers, organizing each file and placing them in her bag. 

She considers calling Crawford, to report her investigation so far. But she stops herself, hand halfway to the hotel phone. 

He'd make her pack her bags come back the moment he hears she stepped into Lecter’s abandoned den. 

The idea of more desk work solidifies her decision. She’s not built to be a secretary. Her hand, rather than pick up the receiver, ensures an alarm is set for the morning.

* * *

Will is a creature of silent beauty. He keeps to himself at these soirees, Hannibal knows. Will prefers a dark suit, some variant of charcoal, and those thick glasses that obscure him--the real him--from the world.

But watching Will's scarred hands clutch a champagne flute as if it'll ward off conversation, Hannibal loves him terribly.

The talisman does not work. A rather stunning heiress with a throat draped in diamonds insists on making heated conversation with Will. Will sips his drink politely, nodding.

Hannibal crosses the room. Slowly. Deliberately. When he reaches out and takes Will by the bicep, Will does not flinch.

"You'll have to forgive him," Hannibal tells the heiress. 

"Well, sure, he's a bit eccentric." She looks past Hannibal, at Will. "But he's such a sympathetic darling."

"My partner is mute."

She locks eyes with Hannibal. And she flounders. Her mouth opens and closes, like a fish drowning on air. And Hannibal takes the opportunity to brush an errant curl out of Will's face.

"Please excuse us," Hannibal says to her.

In his gratitude, Will helps Hannibal set the table. And they work well together. It's silent, this display of setting each dish so perfectly for guests. But they know each other, fit around the other like a puzzle piece finding its match.

While Hannibal does so love the thrill of feeding their prey to a wider audience, every dish is cooked with Will in mind. He only hopes Will understands this. The airs of hospitality exist to protect them but tonight is truly about the two of them.

"Nothing," Hannibal announces to their guests, looking over at Will, "served here is vegetarian."

Will looks up over the frame of his glasses to give Hannibal a look. It's one of amusement, the same dark humour they share.

Hannibal watches the table. There's enjoyment in his guests' enjoyment. But Will's enjoyment, the small smirk of knowing and of compliment is the climax of the evening.

Nothing, Hannibal thinks, is better than to see Will eating at the same table.

* * *

Clarice picks up the phone. Crawford's office number is second-nature to her by now. But this errand differs from those others.

"Agent Jack Crawford, Behavioural—"

"I know where to find Lecter and Graham," Clarice says, the words tumbling out of her mouth.

"Your report was due four days ago, Starling."

"I know, sir, but—"

"There are no buts, Starling." Crawford sighs, deep and tired. "If I tell you to investigate, I expect you to stick to a schedule. Don't overstay your welcome. It's dangerous."

"I know it's dangerous, sir, but I have information."

"I'll meet you at the airport," he tells her sternly. "I expect a full report. Then we can talk about making up some of your exams."

Clarice rubs her temple, trying to figure out how to communicate the urgency. But Crawford doesn't leave her any room.

"They're in Europe," Clarice interrupts. "Sir."

The line goes quiet. Clarice can hear Crawford breathing on the other end. There's the slide of paper, a click of a pen.

"Europe."

"Yes, sir."

"Where?" 

"I'm not sure," Clarice admits. "Lecter and Graham flew out of Belize. Paid in cash."

"And you're sure it was them?"

"The photographs from BSHCI were a match according to the airline staff."

"I'll meet you when you land in Boston."

Crawford hangs up. Clarice listens to the line for a bit, pride swelling her chest.  
And deep in the pit of her stomach, she knows this will be more than a few official reprimands.

* * *

Will could live in this luxury of a warm fire burning wood he's chopped. He sips brandy and watches the firewood licked by flames. He's content with this comfortable life.

And with Hannibal.

He tries not to look, but Will can hear the scratch of Hannibal's charcoal pencils. Will's curious. Hannibal's stare lingers just a moment too long. He's studying, Will knows.

Thinking Hannibal might be sketching him, Will finally gives in to his curiosity. He cranes his neck, trying to see the page. But Hannibal merely smiles and assures Will, "I'll show you when I'm done."

Will tries to speak, but none of the words he wants to say come out. It's all raw, wordless noise.

"Don't strain your throat," Hannibal warns.

Looking into the fire, Will finds a hot frustration rising in him. It would be so easy to just say those five words. Just _I want to see it._ That's all it takes. 

And he can't even manage that. Just more choked noises that refuse to become words.

"Will, I'm not sure why this has happened," Hannibal admits.

Hating the note of anxiety in Hannibal's voice, Will looks up, locks eyes with him. 

"I have my theories."

Will nods for Hannibal to continue.

"The first," Hannibal sighs, "is this is a psychosomatic silence. You are mute because it protects you."

Scowling, Will shakes his head. He's never felt safer than he does with Hannibal. And their time in South America left Will feeling confident, relaxed, unguarded. For the first time in his life, he could return to the nest he shared with Hannibal without the fear of teeth or knives. They were a matched set at last.

"Then I have to believe it is physical." Hannibal sets his sketchbook aside, charcoal forgotten for the moment. He cups Will's face in a frigid hand. "Perhaps, that night on the cliff, you hit your head. Brain injuries can manifest a number of symptoms from personality changes to the loss of sight or hearing."

Will leans into Hannibal's touch. That hand is made to cup Will's face. 

"I am sorry, Will, I didn't look for it sooner."

Taking Hannibal's wrist, Will places a kiss to his palm. How could either of them predicted this? How could they plan for this?

"I know wonderful speech therapists, Will. Or, if you don't like that, we could learn to sign."

Will shakes his head. He presses his lips again to Hannibal's palm. No one could have predicted this.

His eyes wander to the sketchbook. Hannibal has drawn, in confident lines, Will. Just staring into the fire, sipping brandy. No embellishments. Every scar and freckle and imperfection is right there on the page.

Will's chest is full of pride and it would be impossible to love Hannibal more.

* * *

Her report looks so lacklustre with only the basic facts on paper. It's dry, with no room to continue the investigation. And yet Clarice can't add anything she can't prove.

She knows, walking to Crawford's office, he'll take notes on her theories. But it's not the same as having her findings in the official report.

Crawford waves her in, looking more tired and worn than before Clarice left. 

"Your report, Starling?"

Clarice sets it on Crawford's desk. "Sir."

Crawford looks through it in silence. Clarice takes time to study his office all over again. No family photos. She's never heard him mention kids. But Clarice has seen one photo of Crawford wearing a wedding ring. She’s heard the other agents talk about Crawford’s late wife.

"Good work." It's as lacklustre as the bare bones of her investigation. "Your instructors have been missing you for long enough, Starling."

"Sir?"

"They're taking this investigation off the table," Crawford tells her firmly. "The process to extradite Lecter and Graham would be lengthy and we don't know where they are."

"I do, sir."

Crawford fixes her with a serious stare. "No. What you have is a theory about where they are. Which is a whole continent."

"But I—"

"Lecter knows how to avoid law enforcement. I have no doubt he and Graham are living under false names. Names they probably stole from their victims." Crawford settles back in his chair, defeated. Deflated. "I'm not willing to put a trainee under the scrutiny it takes to deal with Lecter. For now, go back to your classes. Study for your exams. Catch up on what you can."

"So that's it, then? We're just giving up?" Clarice asks.

"For now? Yes. We are." Crawford closes the file on her report. 

Clarice nods. "Yes, sir."

"You've done some good field work, Starling. I'll make sure it's noticed."

"Thank you, sir."

Clarice steps out of his office, feeling twice as defeated. It's not until she gets back to her apartment that she remembers she has some money saved up. 

Enough for one ticket to Europe, depending on where she decides to land.

* * *

Will hides behind his champagne flute. These parties reek of old money and sophistication, everyone chattering about who is designing who. And the gossip. It makes Will dizzy. All of these people have the same hollowness in them.

He maps out his designs in detail, seeing the way he carves meat for the table. Scanning the crowd, Will imagines how he’d present each and every one of them to Hannibal. Will knows Hannibal loves fine art.

Will pauses. Someone in the small gathering stands out.

She's unrefined. Will knows it by the way she smiles a bit too wide, talks a bit too loud. She's American, too. He can hear it in her voice, that pure West Virginia accent she’s trying to shed. 

The woman laughs at something, shakes her head. It's a wild gesture, lacking the elitist restraint usually found in Hannibal's guests. 

Will feels Hannibal's hand on the small of his back. "You're staring."

He nods toward the woman who's invaded their den. Hannibal, ever subtle, follows Will's stare. 

"She doesn't belong here."

Will nods, sipping his champagne. He watches the American woman. She's young, ambitious. But not so ambitious she's trying to become one of Hannibal's sophisticated guests.

No, Will decides. This woman is FBI. Alone. And she has no idea what she's up against.

"Come to the kitchen," Hannibal murmurs.

Will nods. The kitchen is their space. The guests know better than to intrude and spoil the mystery behind the solid oak doors. Will's grateful to be away from the party.

Hannibal gets Will a pad of paper and a pen. "Write everything you've seen."

Will takes the pen. He commits all his observations to paper. Everything he's read in her face, her hands, the way she carries herself through a room. When he's done, he lets Hannibal read it.

"She is a threat," Hannibal tells Will.

Will nods. 

"Will, I refuse to allow our home to be—"

Without thinking, Will holds Hannibal's face in both hands. He kisses him, entirely unprompted.

* * *

Hannibal does not forget the disruption of their life, Crawford's student. He notices the way she eats (too much gusto, too unsatisfied by a decent portion) and the way she keeps her badge in her breast pocket (only trainees and recent graduates felt the need to keep it so close to home). She doesn't belong in the world he'd cultivated for Will.

Once the guests have left and the mess is cleaned, Will and Hannibal settle by the fireplace, warm and content.

But Hannibal thinks. He watches the flames and considers what exactly to do with her. It has to be subtle. Maybe she's calling Crawford from the hotel room she's using. If she's checking in regularly, they'll need to be careful.

Will's hand finds Hannibal's jaw. They fit together like pieces of eggshell, each crack lining up seamlessly. The looks in Will's deep blue eyes is clear. He wants to know what Hannibal's thinking.

"She'll have to be dealt with."

Will nods. His thumb finds Hannibal's lower lip, running over it. 

"I would like, if I may, to handle this problem alone, Will."

Brows furrow in frustration. Maybe anger. Will shakes his head. 

"I suspect, Will, if Crawford came to our door, he'd readily take you back."

Will shakes his head again, dark curls tossed with violence. And Hannibal understands. Will refuses to be Crawford's hunting hound any longer., refuses to point to wherever Crawford’s shot in the dark

Hannibal smoothes Will's curls away from his face. Without thinking, Hannibal leans in, kissing Will tenderly. 

This they both understand. Together.

Hannibal pulls away first. "Let me get you a glass of wine."

Will shakes his head. He knows. Hannibal can see it in the deep mistrust of Will's eyes. It scares Hannibal that Will knows exactly what Hannibal's planned. But of course Will would know all of him.

The fire dies down to the last embers of the night and it's ghastly to see Will like this, in only the faint glow of a single lamp. Will's face is gaunt, sharp, feral. He's hungry for something beyond flesh and beyond murder.

Hannibal states firmly, "No wine, then. But it is late. To bed?"

Will gets up, he holds out a hand for Hannibal to take. And once he's helped Hannibal out of the comfortable armchair by the fire, Will holds Hannibal's hands, Will's fingers fitting between Hannibal's own.

For a brief moment, Hannibal wonders how he ever lived without someone who fit into place like this, someone who understands him so completely. 

Will places a kiss to the corner of Hannibal's mouth, then leads him in gentle tugs, to the bed they share. The moonlight pools over the dark sheets and for a moment, Hannibal wonders how much of Will washed away in the ocean that night. But Will undoes Hannibal's tie, kisses him, and Hannibal knows it was not washing that happened that night.

It was filling. Will becoming full of the thing Hannibal meant him to become.

* * *

It's past eleven when Clarice gets back to her hotel room. It’s cheap, affordable enough for a month if she needs it. She ignores the yellowed wallpaper and scent of cigarettes that leaks out of the walls. 

Glancing at her watch, Crawford should still be in his office. He's often there for late nights and early mornings. Clarice tries not to think about it too hard as she sits on the edge of the bed and picks up the phone. She knows the number—not the secretary but Crawford's direct line—by heart.

"Crawford."

"I've found them." Clarice takes her badge out of her breast pocket, tossing it on the end table. where it slides across the surface and threatens to fall onto the carpet. "Sir."

"Starling, you're being reckless."

"Sir, Hannibal Lecter—"

"Come home, Clarice," Crawford orders. "When I gave you some leeway to snoop around Belize with the hope you’d find something concrete."

"Sir, will you hear me out?"

Aside from Crawford sighing, the line is silent. Clarice feels small, childish. She's gotten herself a one-way ticket to Europe, with only enough money for this small hotel room, and no plan on how to get back to America.

"Clarice?"

"Sir. Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham are...I've found them."

"And you can make your report when you get back."

"With all due respect," Clarice tries to keep her voice firm, "I don't think I want to come back."

"Starling."

She swallows, takes a deep breath. "How can we sleep at night knowing they're free?"

"We sleep knowing justice isn't always about freelance vigilantes hunting down everyone who jay walks or runs a red light." Crawford's sigh is tired. He has every right to be, Clarice knows. "It's often paperwork and waiting. That's what you signed up for. That's why we train you on procedure, warrants. All of it."

"Is it enough?"

"It is." Crawford doesn't sound willing to budge. "Starling if you get yourself arrested..."

"I know, Jack." 

Clarice hangs up, not willing to sit through another earful. She stares down at her badge. It's just a trainee toy, like the fake guns they use to clear rooms full of fake criminals. 

But this time the criminals won't be fake. The gun will be real. 

She goes to her suitcase, taking her handgun and holster. Clarice tosses her badge in the trash. 

The phone rings, startling her. She picks up, hangs it up. Crawford, most likely. When she picks up again, Clarice calls for a cab and gives the driver Lecter and Graham’s address.

* * *

Will wakes, not sure exactly why. He lays there, in the dark, listening. Next to him, Hannibal is still. He must've heard whatever woke Will too.

Slipping out of bed, Will's eyes adjust to the dark, able to discern the different shapes of their bedroom furnishings. He opens the bedroom door quietly, grateful for the way it opens silently. 

Downstairs, something moves. 

Something's violated the privacy of their den. Stuck its nose where it doesn't belong.

The sound of boots on the hardwood floor lets Will listen to the intruder's steps through the house. It has to be Crawford's trainee. 

While he stands at the top of the stairs, contemplating what to do, Hannibal puts a hand on the small of Will's back. Of course, Will thinks. They're together. A pair of hunters instead of just the one.

And Will understands he will come across as the less threatening of the two of them. The mute, brooding empath seems reasonable. 

Will brushes his lips against Hannibal's, silently, and descends the stairs. He knows where things in this house creak and how to move quietly. 

Will finds her in the kitchen, illuminated by the glow of their emptied freezer. He flips on the light switch, blinding them both briefly. Will knows enough to sidestep, move away from the switch.

And then he sees the gun. 

She holds it clumsily, one-handed. It would be so easy for Will to step forward and take it from her, disarm her right here.

But he waits. Waits for her to turn and stare at him.

"Will Graham," she says firmly. 

A simple statement of identity. It's the first time he's been addressed properly by anyone except Hannibal. Will smiles and nods his head.

This seems to catch her off-guard. She fumbles for her breast pocket and, when she doesn't pull anything out, she stutters for a moment.

"I'm Clarice Starling," she announces, her confidence found again as she fumbles with the gun.

Will raises a brow. He hates his silence, but it seems to leave her floundering, lost. 

"Jack Crawford sent me."

Not buying it for a second, Will tilts his head, questioning her. If Crawford did send her, he's made a grave mistake. If Crawford hasn't sent her, it's her mistake.

Will hears Hannibal on the stairs, quiet and quick. He'll probably come up behind her and disarm her. The thought of Hannibal doing all the work makes Will's blood boil. 

Before he realizes it, he's lunged. Starling's eyes widen. Green. They're green, Will notes. And she manages to pull the trigger, the bullet ripping through Will's shoulder, so close to that scar he acquired the night of the fall. But he grabs one of her hands, twists her wrist.

Metal clatters on the hardwood. Will turns her arm, pinning her down to the cold wood floor of the kitchen. It's instinct.

"You're hurt," Hannibal murmurs.

Will glances up. Hannibal seems impartial, just observing. Without emotion, Hannibal crosses the room and takes the handgun. 

"Well, Will?"

Will makes a choked sound. _Well, what?_

"How will you deal with her?" Hannibal asks.

"No, please," Starling begs, seeming to understand exactly the danger she's in. "You're not like him."

Hannibal sets the gun on the kitchen counter, out of reach.

But they've never liked guns. Not the firing of them, at least. Brandishing one has so many benefits but a bullet in the meat is messy, too impersonal.

Will looks down at Clarice Starling and sizes her up for Hannibal's palette. She's lean and reeks of just-barely-above West Virginia poverty. Her voice wavers as she begs, begs for her life like so many before her.

It takes no thought. Will grabs a fistful of her hair and slams her skull against the floor. Then again. And again. He does it until bone cracks and she stops struggling and pleading, aside from a slight jerk, a last attempt at self-preservation and a final gasp. 

Getting to his feet, Will looks at Hannibal.

"This isn't the design I expected," Hannibal says, cooly observing the mess Will's made of their kitchen. "I expected something more...intimate, coming from you."

Whatever it is that's kept Will from speaking is gone, a burden lifted. Will locks eyes with Hannibal. "She wasn't fit for consumption."

Hannibal blinks, a small betrayal of emotion. "No. I don't suppose she was."

Will takes the handgun from the counter. Disassembling it, Will spreads out the pieces. When he finishes he realizes he’s made a dark swan. 

Hannibal places a hand on Will's back, guiding him back upstairs. And now Will feels the dull throb of the gunshot. The bullet had to pass clean through him at such a close range.

With care, Hannibal allows Will to sit on the edge of the bathtub. Hannibal's hands strip Will of his shirt, the fabric deeply crimson and reeking of iron. Will watches Hannibal get the first aid kit. He's at ease, knowing Hannibal can tend to his wounds. 

"Will, I need you to stay awake."

It's easy when Hannibal disinfects the wound, Will hissing at the sting. 

"I'm awake," Will promises.

"If she was unfit for the table, how will you dispose of her?" Hannibal asks, threading a needle.

"She didn't have a badge."

Hannibal pauses.

"She reached for one," Will continues, staring at the needle. "But she didn't have one in her pocket."

Hannibal takes the forceps and needle, drawing the latter through Will's skin. He says nothing. He doesn't need to. There's worry etched in his face. 

"Hannibal?"

A hum. Questioning.

"Hannibal, talk to me."

"I've done the talking," Hannibal tells Will. There's an edge to his voice, like a tiger. "I've talked for three years."

"And I want you to tell me what you're thinking," Will says. "We're a team. The same breed. Same stomach."

Hannibal pauses. Will nods at the half-finished sutures. With a deep sigh, Hannibal finishes closing Will's wounds.

"I worry that this will reflect poorly on us. The beginning of the end," Hannibal admits, eyes on his work on Will's shoulder. "I worry that this will be the way Crawford divides us."

"And conquers us?"

Hannibal nods, clipping the excess thread. 

"You know I made my choice," Will says, turning for Hannibal to inspect his back. 

The cold feeling of being prodded makes Will wince. He can feel metal being pulled from him, all jagged edges. The clink of metal on porcelain rings loud and clear in the silent spaces between them.

* * *

Hannibal opens the hotel room using Clarice's key. It's cold enough at this time of year that no one says anything about him wearing black gloves. 

Standing in the room, he tries to figure out how Will takes on people, how they invade him. But it's silent. Just an empty room. 

There's a hair tie on the nightstand, forgotten, and a suitcase resting on the floor. Spilling out of it are clothes. Nothing new. Nothing fancy. Hannibal shifts attire aside, not looking for anything in particular. Satisfied with his search, he packs everything clumsily, like he assumes she would have done. 

He's ready to leave when he pauses by the trashcan in the room. Craning his neck to peer inside, he finds a familiar glint, a clumsy smile half-hidden in the other rubbish.

He reaches down, grabbing it by the corner. For a moment, he stares at the picture of Starling. Bright, a little awkward. Hannibal sees her for the freckles on her nose, the smudge of pink lipgloss, and the determined look in her green eyes. 

And now Will is disposing of her body.

Hannibal pockets the badge. 

It will make a nice momento for Crawford.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art of “Swansong” by zombified_queer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24527335) by [kishafisha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kishafisha/pseuds/kishafisha)




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